


Dark Smoke

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Sansa, Dragon's Feast, F/M, Jealousy, Possession, Sexual Content, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: "Wolves.” Her words are kisses: fire-blush, they burn his lips. “Andwebelong here.”Even a feast held in honour of the dragon queen cannot stop wolves from running wild in the dark//Sansa riles a queen; Jon schools her in the shadows.





	Dark Smoke

She sits as a statue through feast and fireflame: clean-lined, smooth-carved — ivory and crimson, soft velvet cheeks and blood-red hair spilling loose down her back. Hers is the profile of a queen, of a shield-maiden, of a warrior of old — she has endured all, she has endured _everything_ … and yet he looks away.

Down the ale-soaked table, he looks to _her_.

Silver-haired, violet-eyed, dressed in a snow-white gown as if she _belongs_ here: this dragon queen — this flash of fire in a world of frost. Northmen look at her the way a wolf cuts glances at a sheep strayed from the flock; lick-lipped, stoop-shouldered, heavy-lidded, their eyes prowl and pad restlessly. Still, she rises from the high-backed chair — _mother’s_ chair, rosewood, lovingly carved with leaping paint-flecked trout — and lifts a silver-plated cup.

A drop of wine dances down its edge: blood-red.

“I thank you for the feast, my lords.” Her voice is high and clear, a silver-peal to match the little bells dangling from her braid. “I hope — ”

“What is hope?” She speaks now: sun-warmed stone, fire-shot frost in the torchlight. “Hope is for the weak, not for the winter — hope is a dream for spring.”

Her words fall as a whiplash of white-tipped arrows: a patter of raindrops as they scatter across the echoes of the hall — _thud_ , _thud_ , _thud_ on flagstones, tapestries, high up in the rafters, right _there_ between the crooks of the dragon queen’s ribs.

Violet eyes, bursting like bellflowers, glitter-shod as a dragon’s fire-warm scales — but she has faced half a thousand beasts: lion’s claw, flayman’s knife, a mockingbird’s silver kiss. What are pretty violet eyes to all the terrors she has danced with?

The silver-plated cup trembles; the wine-drop falls and blooms — a blood-red bruise — across snow-white skirts.

“Sansa.” Dark smoke cutting across the flames between them: _his_ voice, steel and storm and leather and snow-clad sentinels — _home_. “A word.”

Fingers — sword-rough sword- _strong_ — a brotherly grip on her elbow as he leads her from the hall, past the prowling northmen, the seething dragon queen, the white-tipped words sticking thick as woodsmoke to every tabletop and tapestry and tankard. She follows meek as a lamb trails a shepherd as he pulls her across the cobblestones of the courtyard; ice-slick, she near slips with the speed he spins her.

Black-eyed, a growl rumbling low in his throat — he presses her against the roughshod grey stone of the curtain wall and leans in close. She can _feel_ the heat smoking from him, she can _taste_ the want flaming his blood: salt-sharp, smoke-dark it scents the icy air, flares up and scatters as ash to mix with the soft-falling snow.

She smiles to see his eyes darken.

“ _That_ was ill done.” Dark smoke, but softer now: a wolf aching to lap at the velvet of her cheek. “I told you – we have need of what she offers.”

“And I told you — she is fire in a world of frost.” She makes her voice a purr; like a siren’s spell to a wayward sailor, it makes him spin, sigh, _sink_. “She does not belong here.”

His fingers — sword-rough sword- _strong_ — tangling up her skirts. “Where _does_ she belong?”

“South.” She bites her lip; head rolling against the grey stone. “Far from here.”

“And me — where do I belong?”

Knuckles, bone-blunt, trailing a streak of fire against her thigh; like a flower, she opens for him: silk-soft petals set to flame by his touch.

“There… Mmm, right _there_ , Jon Snow.”

Her moan is the smoke of his growl: curl-drifts of it spin white against the black air, bellow as dragon’s breath skyward to bandy amongst the stars. His mouth, red-warm on her throat, melting the scatter of snowflakes settled there. A streak of fire to match his fingers: his tongue darts along her jaw.

“Childish,” he murmurs, catching at her lip with his teeth. “ _Dangerous_ … that’s what it was, Sansa Stark.”

She tugs back, bites his own lip — _hard_ , sucks the sting of her teeth from his mouth as she catches him in a kiss that leaves him black-eyed, breathless, _bleeding_. Another growl low in his throat; she wipes the bead of blood from his lip with her thumb, smiles sweetly as she sucks her skin clean.

“She is a _dragon_ , sweet sister.”

“Aye — and we are _wolves_ , dear brother.”

Fingers — sword-rough sword- _strong_ — yanking her legs up around his waist. Scrabbling hands, hard-edged breaths, bare flesh stinging in the ice of the air, boots slipping for purchase on frost-chased cobblestones; a hand — spread-fingered — gripping at the grey stone by her head as she pulls away his laces and cups him in her palm.

“Wolves,” he says, breathless, bright-cheeked, bucking against her fingers.

He parts her — _sinks_ inside her — a wolf flexing its claws against her throat. The howl they make when they move together is lost in the fray of feast and fireflame echoing from the great hall, the patter of snowflakes hitting the walls around them: the hum of home, the song of the north — dark and sweet as woodsmoke.

She grips his neck, fingers twisting into his dark curls, tilting his head back for her kiss. Gently, it lands — light-winged as a hummingbird, drinking in the nectar that spreads honey-sweet across his tongue. He sucks her lip, draws back smiling to feel her — _all_ of her: sun-warmed stone made liquid heat around him, ivory and crimson — his very own queen.

“Wolves.” Her words are kisses: fire-blush, they burn his lips. “And _we_ belong here.”

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : so here I (an ardent **#bookreader** and Jon/Val lover) am _somehow_ on my fourth Jonsa fic. Think it's safe to say I am something of a convert now...! Please feel free to leave feedback etc. 🐺❤️


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